A Meeting Over Lunch
by dragondark
Summary: [preseries] How Wilson and House might have met.


Disclaimer: If I owned House, presumably I would be wealthy and inserting subtext into the series to taunt the fans. As this is not happening, we can assume that I have no part in the series.

Notes: Probably an AU, alas.

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**a meeting over lunch**

After extricating himself from the discussion of a patient that is more than it seems ("the patient has some very interesting changes on his charts," Fran says, looking at him with earnest eyes. "Maybe we could get together sometime this weekend and--" "Ah," Wilson says, "can we discuss this later? I think I left someone waiting in the cafeteria," and escapes), Wilson returns to his table to find his lunch has vanished.

He's not sure at first that he made it back to the right table -- God knows that his sense for dating isn't the greatest, and maybe it's infected his sense of direction too -- but all the nearest tables are bare. He spends another five minutes peering warily at the tables crowded with people and trying to identify someone who looks like a lunch-thief before giving up. Some things are destined, and it appears that his destiny is to not have anything to eat. If that's the case, he can go have nothing to eat in his office, where at least he can do something productive simultaneously.

On his way out, he spots his coat in a heap on a chair beside a man in a gray jacket. A man who, on closer inspection, is eating a lunch that looks suspiciously like Wilson's.

Wilson spends several minutes trying to think of an approach. "What the hell do you think you're doing," has passion but lacks specificity. "Can I have my food back?" assumes that he wants his soup and sandwich after a stranger with unidentified ailments -- well, it is a hospital -- has been at them. "Excuse me, but are you eating my lunch?" borders on the absurd.

He settles for sliding back the chair, picking up his coat, and seating himself beside the stranger. Eventually, they have to talk to each other. The workings of the man's conscience, at least, will ensure that.

Wilson waits, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the lining of his coat. The man placidly continues to eat. After a long silence, he shakes his head.

"Excuse me--" he starts.

"Ten minutes and fifty-two seconds," the man says without looking away.

Wilson says, "What?"

"The time it took you," the stranger says, "before you actually figured out where to find your lunch and made a confrontation over it." He examines his plate, which is laden with a sandwich. _Wilson's_ sandwich. "Here's a tip," he says. "In case you were thinking about giving up your career as a doctor: don't become a private detective."

"I'm sorry," Wilson says, annoyed. "I'm not used to the idea that my lunch isn't safe for five minutes in a cafeteria. People don't usually wander up and walk off with it."

"I don't see why not," the stranger says. "It's quite delicious. I really like the minestrone today."

"I'll be sure to convey your compliments to the cooks," Wilson says. "Can I ask why you felt the need to--"

"Nope," says the stranger. Picking up a spoon, he proceeds to attack the soup. He hasn't shaved in several days and looks extremely scruffy.

Wilson eyes the decimated remains of his sandwich. There's actually something naggingly familiar about the man's brusque manner, something that he's heard about...

To distract himself, he offers an introduction: "James Wilson, Oncology," he says curtly.

"Is the center of all gossip during the nurses' coffee break?"

Wilson bites down the urge to say 'really?' He's pretty sure he doesn't need to know. "The guy you're buying lunch."

"In what alternate universe?"

"Are you really going to risk being reported to the Dean of Medicine for the sake of a sandwich?" Wilson asks, a little incredulously. The stranger turns.

"What can I say," he says, "it's a _hell_ of a sandwich. Are you really going to report someone because they ate your lunch?"

"I don't know," Wilson says, feeling the situation slip a little further into absurdity. He should be doing something; he shouldn't just be sitting here having a civil conversation with someone who is now polishing off the remains of his tray. But the idea of punching out someone over a minestrone, he admits, does seem even more crazed. "Are you going to make a habit of this?"

"Not if you eat salads," the stranger says. "No point getting chewed out by the Dean over something meant to be chewed in."

"Doctor Wilson--" someone exclaims from behind him before he can react to the appalling pun. He turns to see Fran standing anxiously at his shoulder, hovering so close that his nose nearly grazes her navel. He pulls a little back.

"Doctor Wilson," says the stranger, "will not be available to sexually harass you or do whatever you want from him until after he's finished whining about lunch." The nurse's attention flicks from Wilson to the man behind him; she stares at him, indignant. The stranger clarifies: "_Go away."_

After a blank silence, she flounces off. The stranger resumes eating. Wilson says, carefully trying to find some balance between furious sympathy for Fran and relief, "Do you know her?"

"Me? No," says the stranger. "And it looks like you didn't want to, either. Oh, don't look like that. Save your moral outrage for her later if you want her forgiveness."

"How did you know--"

"You twitched so hard when she came by that it probably registered on a Richter scale, and when you actually saw her you nearly fell out of your seat. Onto me, the foul evil thief of lunches. Obvious plus obvious equals..." He brandishes his fork at the air and makes a face struggling for the answer.

Wilson laughs, and then is annoyed with himself.

"We'll call it even on the lunches thing," the stranger says, rising. "Don't thank me, all that gratitude makes me blush. I'm just generous by nature. I'll even fend off the unwanted crowds of adoring nurses for the rest of the week."

"No," Wilson says, "thank you. I like my life the way it is."

"Crowded with adoring nurses? I hope your wife knows." He starts to walk away. Wilson hurries after him, .

"They don't adore me, I'm not married, and I like my life when no one hates me. You're buying me lunch tomorrow, if not today."

They veer towards the elevators. In the wait, the stranger turns to him. "Should I dress up?" he says in an awed voice. "Should I bring you flowers? And -- I know this is too early in our relationship -- but are we dating?"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "If you want out, I take cash," he says.

"That's great," the stranger says. "I don't. Take cash, I mean. My services are strictly limited."

"I can tell," Wilson says. "Who are you?"

The stranger looks down, half-smiles and glances up again to meet Wilson's eyes. "Gregory House, diagnostics." The doors open and he steps inside.

"House," Wilson says.

"Yep." He leans forward and punches a button.

As the doors start to close, Wilson says, "Did you know whose lunch you were stealing?"

House grins. The doors shut between them.

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**end**

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feedback: would be excellent, particularly from someone besides my own paranoia!


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